


lazy lover, find a place for me again

by ericdire (aarobron)



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Break Up, M/M, Rebuilding, just bear with me i promise it'll be worth it, listen idk how to describe this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:40:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23029462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aarobron/pseuds/ericdire
Summary: The thing is, Virgil wouldn't even say things arebad. They're just - not good. He has a part to play in that, and so does Jordan. Sometimes, love just isn't enough, and they're learning that the hard way.
Relationships: Virgil van Dijk/Jordan Henderson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ok so, i know the tags and summary might put you off, but please give this a chance. this is a story of them rebuilding, after forcing their relationship and ultimately hurting the people around them, between watford and the end of the season. i'll update every week (hopefully) after every premier league game, because it follows real events and fixtures.
> 
> please give this a shot!!
> 
> feedback always appreciated, thank you so much for reading xx

Virgil looks over at the bench, sees the bewildered face of his manager.

Looks a little further past it, sees the exhausted face of his boyfriend.

His heart breaks, and he turns away.

They lose three nil. Virgil knows it's his fault.

.

The thing is, Virgil wouldn't even say things are _bad_. They're just - not good. He has a part to play in that, and so does Jordan. Sometimes, love just isn't enough, and they're learning that the hard way.

He does love Jordan. So much it hurts, so much that he doesn't know what to do with it. Every morning, when he wakes up and sees the soft splay of Jordan's eyelashes against his cheekbones, he forgets how to breathe. He feels honoured that he's the one that gets that sight every day. He feels blessed.

And things are fine, at first. Jordan smiles at him when he wakes up, sweet and familiar, like Virgil is the only thing that matters. Rustling sheets and Jordan's breathless laughter, the heat of his mouth. The tantalising drag of his hips and the way he gasps when he comes. These are the things that Virgil loves most, because he knows that only he gets to bear witness to it.

Those things are his, and his alone.

But as the day goes on, the easy brightness in Jordan's eyes fade. Things start to pick at him - maybe Virgil left a towel on the bathroom floor, or he said something that Jordan wasn't comfortable with in training. He made plans for them both and forgot to tell Jordan, or just - it could be anything. That's what Virgil is trying to say.

Menial stuff that snowballs into something massive, and then neither of them can ignore it. Cue the arguments. Cue the guilt and the tears and the apologies.

Round and round and round.

It's not healthy.

It's starting to affect the team now too. That loss proved it. Virgil's head isn't in the game, because he's too busy thinking of ways to fix this. Desperate times call for desperate men, and Virgil is a god among them right now. 

The worst part is that when they're stuck in that stuffy little away dressing room at Vicarage Road, Jordan doesn't even shout at him. He doesn't rant, or tell him that he was shit, or list all the ways he was at fault for the goals. He doesn't tell him how he should improve, where to track, where not to track.

He doesn't say anything.

He won't even meet Virgil's eye.

And somehow, that's worse than the yelling. 

Because that's when he knows that they can't keep doing this. That this is over, whether they like it or not. It's out of their control now.

But which one of them is going to bite the bullet and end it?

.

Virgil takes initiative, because that's what he does.

Their daily argument has been over for a while, and now it's just - exhaustion. Self hatred. Wishing things would change, but knowing they won't. Stewing in it, but together, because Jordan is tucked under his arm, head on his chest.

He glances up at the ceiling, tears in his eyes.

Thinks,

_I love you._

_I'm so sorry._

_This is for the best._

Takes a deep breath, and slides his hand up to Jordan's shoulder.

"Jord," he says quietly, praying his voice doesn't break. If he starts crying, he's not sure he'll ever stop. "We need to talk."

Jordan slides out of Virgil's grip and stands, offering the younger man a tight smile. It's not real, but before he has a chance to call Jordan out on it, he speaks again. "Do you want a cup of tea?" He asks, and Virgil is so shocked that all he can do is nod.

It doesn't take him long to realise that Jordan is just using this as a distraction technique. Stringing out the time they've got left. 

All he's doing is delaying the inevitable.

When he comes back in, he puts both mugs on the table and then stands, glancing around like he's at a loss. Like he's trying to find something else to distract them both with, but he comes up empty, and wrings his hands together, looking anywhere but at Virgil's face.

"Sit down, J," Virgil says softly. He tries to smile, but judging by the look in Jordan's eyes, he fails. "We need to talk."

"I know," Jordan says, voice strong like he's trying to prove a point. He sits on the edge of the sofa with his back straight, chin tilted up, but Virgil can see his heart breaking in his eyes. "I know what you're going to say."

"Do you?" Virgil asks, because - how can you assume about something like this? Virgil himself isn't even certain about what he's supposed to be saying. He doesn't know how to go about this.

"You want to break up," Jordan says matter of factly. He presses his lips into a thin line but his chin still trembles, and he doesn't flinch away when Virgil puts a hand on his knee. Virgil doesn't know whether to be proud of his strength or heartbroken that he feels like he can't let himself be upset. "I know it's been tough recently."

"Yeah," Virgil breathes, wiping the back of his hand across his nose. He doesn't feel like he can look Jordan in the eye, so he stares down at his own fingers instead. Distantly thinks, _I won't be able to do this anymore_. His voice sounds distant when he speaks again. "Good to be self aware."

Jordan is quiet for a minute, breathing harshly like he's trying to hold back the tears, but then-

"Why now?" Jordan asks, voice and face and heart crumbling. The first tear escapes from the corner of his eye and then there's no going back, sliding down his cheeks so quick that he can't wipe them away in time. 

"You know why," Virgil whispers, hating the way tears well in his own eyes. He cups Jordan's cheek comfortingly, but even to himself it feels like nothing more than a pathetic cop out. "It's getting bigger than us, now. It's messing with the team, and that's the one thing we said we wouldn't let happen. We lost to Watford because of me, J. Because I couldn't stop thinking about you and what you're doing to me."

Jordan nods, because he knows - but that doesn't mean he has to like it. His quick, wet breaths turn into hiccuping sobs, and Virgil pulls him in for a hug, nose in his hair and lips on his temple. He doesn't calm down, not even when Virgil rubs soothing circles on his back. Virgil can't blame him.

"Where will you go?" Jordan asks, voice small. Virgil hates it, because Jordan should never, ever feel like that. He hates himself for making it happen.

"I don't know," Virgil says distantly, because he really doesn't. It's not like this is some big masterplan that he's had up his sleeve for a while. He isn't the villain in all of this, because there is no villain. They're both the victims; of falling in love, too hard and too fast, and not knowing what to do with it. "I haven't planned this, Jord. I don't know. I guess I'll just see if Gini will let me stay in his spare room for a few nights, until I sort something out."

"Stay," Jordan whispers, pulling away and wiping his eyes. He swallows when he sees Virgil looking at him quizzically, and blushes bright red. "Not like- not like that. But there's no point in you uprooting yourself in the middle of the season. We have a spare room, don't we? Move into there, just for now."

"Okay," Virgil says softly, stroking Jordan's hair off his forehead. The older man leans into the touch and Virgil's heart shatters even more. "If that's what you want."

"I want tonight," Jordan says, strong and without a hint of hesitation. He lifts his chin defiantly again and he should look ridiculous with the tear tracks that have tattooed to his cheeks, but Virgil thinks he is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. He doesn't know how he's supposed to walk away from this. "Just -- tonight. Is that okay?"

"Of course it is," Virgil breathes, and wraps Jordan up in a tight hug.

He's never been able to deny Jordan anything he wanted, and that's not going to change now.

.

Jordan surges up and kisses Virgil, hot and desperate. He's gasping, tiny little noises tearing from the base of his throat that Virgil swallows. He tries to keep up, but he's close, so close. Decides to slow down, because he wants this to last forever.

"I love you," he whispers, dropping his head so that their cheeks are brushing. It hurts to say at this point, curling around his heart and crushing it, and he doesn't know how he's ever supposed to _not_ say this. When he's walking around Melwood or Anfield, and he looks at Jordan and he-- well, what is he supposed to do then? "I love you so much, J."

"I love you too, baby," Jordan murmurs, but it's too late. There are tears already pricking at the back of Virgil's eyelids and he can no longer swallow around the lump in his throat, so he tucks his face into the side of Jordan's neck. Jordan strokes his fingers through Virgil's hair, down for once, but that doesn't help.

He blinks, and the tears spill over his cheeks.

Jordan doesn't call him out on it. He moves willingly when Virgil curls a hand around the back of his thigh and lifts it until it's brushing against his ribs, and twists his head to drop a soft kiss on his cheek.

He rocks forward, pushing in in shallow motions that drive Jordan crazy. It's so close to where he wants but not quite there, and his fingernails scratch down Virgil's back painfully, trying to get him to move. He doesn't, though. Wants to wear the marks proud, as a reminder, so he carries on as he is.

Eventually though, he shifts the angle, holds Jordan's face and kisses him, forceful but full of intent. This time, when he pulls out and drives his hips back in, the head of his dick nudges against Jordan's prostate. The hands on his back are different this time - softer, stroking up his spine, gentle fingertips on the scratches in the shape of Jordan's nails. As if he knows. 

Of course he knows. They both do.

Jordan is silent when he comes, mouth open and breaths quickening, but he doesn't make a noise. Virgil hides his face in Jordan's skin and tries not to think about the fact this is the last time he gets to see it.

.

"Go to sleep," Virgil whispers, thumb brushing gently just under Jordan's eye.

Jordan blinks heavily, lashes dragging against his cheek as he catches his bottom lip between his teeth. "I don't want to waste tonight," he says, swallowing heavily. "If this is all we've got left."

Virgil sighs, soft like he's trying not to scare off a wild animal, and presses a kiss to Jordan's forehead. He traces patterns down the length of his spine, fingertips brushing sparks against his bare skin, and then ducks his head to kiss his throat. 

"It's like you said," Virgil whispers, mouth ghosting over Jordan's collarbone. He's trying to memorise every inch of his skin, doesn't think he'd be able to handle it if he forgot. "I'll just be over the hall. Any time you want me, J -- I'll be close."

Jordan nods, closes his eyes. Virgil doesn't know whether he's hiding a storm or if he's trying to fall asleep. 

Decides that it doesn't matter either way, because it gives him the perfect opportunity to memorise every little freckle, scar, imperfection.

Counts them and keeps them close to his heart, and hopes that one day, he'll be able to revisit them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Actually, Virgil isn’t sure if Jordan likes sloths anymore. He always used to say that he liked sloths because they reminded him of Virgil, slow and chilled out, and when he found out that they were native to Suriname, he’d said, _well that’s it then, it’s fate_ , like that explained everything. Virgil’s not sure whether that applies now. He might prefer something better, like – tigers. Fast and alert.
> 
> The polar opposite of Virgil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter covers chelsea vs liverpool (FA cup) and liverpool vs bournemouth.
> 
> things have to get worse before they can get better
> 
> feedback always appreciated, thank you for reading xxx

London seems to be even colder than Liverpool.

Jurgen has dragged the team out for a walk through Battersea Park (to a chorus of groans and complaints), and Virgil is seriously regretting not bringing his hat. He hates it right now, hates Klopp for putting him in this position and hates Jordan for making him feel so awful. Hates himself for hating Jordan, because in the end, he's the one that broke things off. 

He wouldn't mind the walk, under any other circumstances. It's just that he and Jordan had decided not to break the news until after Chelsea.

Besides -- he hasn't got Gini. He hasn't got his best friend.

Of course, he has other friends on the team. Other close friends, like Joe and Andy and - well, he can't think of a single one of his teammates that he wouldn't be able to confide in. But they're not Gini. They're not the person that's been there by his side for the past five years, who's suffered the highs and lows with him. He hasn't sat by them all night, miserable and furious, because they failed to reach yet another tournament.

And that's okay; he doesn't expect them to be. His teammates are his family but Gini is his _brother_ , in a completely different sense of the word. Gini is his. Gini is unconditional love.

Jordan used to be like that, too - but we all know how that ended.

Virgil misses him. It's ridiculous, because they see each other all the time. They still live together, dancing around the other almost painfully. That's probably what hurts the most: the fact their bodies are still in sync. 

And they're rooming together tonight. A downside of not telling anyone, Virgil supposed, but the thought of getting to watch the delicate lines of Jordan's face as he sleeps again… Well. That makes it worth it.

Because he misses him. So much it carves deep into his chest, burrowing into his lungs until he can't breathe. It hurts, leaves scars that he doesn't think will ever heal.

He wonders if it'll ever stop hurting.

Jordan seems to have disappeared, and it makes him panic. Maybe this is the start of it - Jordan moves, transfers out of the club, somewhere down south. Just so he doesn't have to see Virgil all the time. Just so he doesn't have to stop himself from reaching out and kissing him.

Or maybe Virgil is the one who leaves. He knows there are a thousand and one offers in his agent's inbox, and he knows that he told him to reject every single one of them. That doesn't stop them coming in, though. It's a revolving door of emails and too many zeros to count.

He makes a mental note to talk to Jordan about it. Now, maybe. This seems like the right place to do it. Neutral ground and all that, no need for either of them to make a scene.

Except Jordan is already talking to James. They've wandered off from the group and are sitting in the bandstand. It's private, because the bitter wind means that nobody is about apart from rushing commuters, and they don't even take their eyes off of their feet.

Jordan's shoulders slump, and Virgil's heart breaks. James puts an arm around his shoulders, comforting and collected, and Virgil wishes it was him.

Wishes he hadn't caused this.

Jordan seems broken, fingers delicate around his own elbows and head bowed, and Virgil just wants to - storm over there. To fix it, and make it better, and tell Jordan that he's sorry. That he'd never, ever leave him, that it was just an error of judgement on his part. 

"What's up?" Robbo says lightly, standing at Virgil's shoulder and following the line of his gaze to Jordan. "Not letting him have friends now? Is the separation anxiety that strong? Never really pegged either of you as being so dependent on someone else, but you never really know, do you?"

"Something like that," Virgil says, and turns away before he does something stupid.

.

They lose, because of course they do.

It only adds to the confusion that's twisting knots into Virgil's stomach right now. He doesn't understand what's going on. He doesn't understand why, when he _broke up_ with Jordan, he's still clouding his mind until he can't even play football. The only thing he's good at, and right now - he can't even do that.

Jordan is just as quiet as Virgil is, sitting on his bed and staring out at the Thames below. Normally, they don't have separate beds. This time, Jordan had gravitated to the one by the window, and made a small, wounded sound like he'd been kicked when Virgil set his bag on the other one. Virgil was pretty sure that he wasn't supposed to hear it, but he did. Like a bullet to the chest.

“What did you say to him?” Virgil asks, trying to stop the crack in his chest from growing any bigger. He’s desperate to know, because the internal speculation is driving him crazy. It could be any number of things, all of them terrible and about Virgil. 

“Hm?” Jordan says distractedly, barely sparing a glance at Virgil. It’s not that he doesn’t want to be here – or maybe it is. Virgil feels like he can’t read him anymore. Wouldn’t be allowed even if he could. It’s not his place.

“To James,” Virgil says, voice soft like he’s trying not to scare off a lost animal. He bites the bullet and stands, sits on the edge of Jordan’s bed, so close that he can feel the head radiating from his skin. He moves closer, and feels the dusky hairs of their arms brush. “What did you say to him when we were in Battersea Park?”

“I told him that we broke up,” Jordan says, and finally turns those blue eyes on Virgil. They’re wide, honest, and once upon a time Virgil could see forever shining back at him. Now all he sees is heartbreak, twisted and shattered. “He deserved to know. He realised something was up, anyway. So I told him. Is that okay?” 

“Of course it is,” Virgil says. He slides his palm up Jordan’s back, just briefly, and watches the shudder that ripples down his spine. “I never had any right to tell you what to do in the first place, but if I did, I lost it when ––” 

He cuts himself off. Swallows and looks away.

“Have you told Gini?” Jordan asks. He’s changing the topic, steering the conversation in another direction. Virgil is so, so grateful. He’d kiss him, if he could. 

“No,” Virgil says, swiping the back of his hand across his nose. He hangs his head and stares down at his knees, noticing that his travel joggers are all stretched out. Maybe it’s about time he gets a new pair. He doesn’t know why he insisted on keeping these ones for so long. “I haven’t seen him yet.” 

“Well, he’ll get you through it,” Jordan says. He’s trying to be brave but his voice cracks at the end, and he stands, rifling through his suitcase like he needs something to do. “Gini always knows what to say.” 

“Yeah,” Virgil says distantly, staring at the pile of clothes in Jordan’s hands. His pyjamas, the ones that he never, ever wears in front of Virgil. He’s more than comfortable in an old t-shirt and his underwear. 

He takes once quick glance at Virgil and disappears into the bathroom, and the intimacy they once shared has disappeared like it never existed.

.

He rolls onto his back, stares at the ceiling. There’s a water stain on the ceiling that looks like a sloth. Jordan loves sloths, watches all the documentaries that are on telly. Once, Virgil accidentally deleted them, and he went off in a huff until he found out you could un-delete things on Sky. 

Actually, Virgil isn’t sure if he likes sloths anymore. He always used to say that he liked sloths because they reminded him of Virgil, slow and chilled out, and when he found out that they were native to Suriname, he’d said, _well that’s it then, it’s fate_ , like that explained everything. Virgil’s not sure whether that applies now. He might prefer something better, like – tigers. Fast and alert.

The polar opposite of Virgil.

He turns onto his side because he can’t bear to stand looking at that fucking sloth anymore, but now he’s facing Jordan. Jordan’s facing him, too, and there’s a three foot gap between them, but he knows all of his freckles so well by now that he doesn’t need to be close to see where they are. He watches him sleep, and pushes down the desperately sad bile that’s rising up his throat. 

He wishes he could sleep. Wants it so bad, eyes burning with the exhaustion of feeling like you’ve had everything snatched away and also of playing a ninety minute game, but it’s not happening. He’s too cold, shivers travelling through his body every so often, and the duvet isn’t doing much to ward it off.

Jordan runs hot, always has. Likes to sleep with the window open, for the fresh air, but Virgil is the complete opposite. Always cold, even more so in the winter months, but – it’s never mattered before. Because Virgil has always had Jordan tucked up close, fighting off the chill of the midnight air and keeping him warm.

But not now.

Now, he feels colder than he ever has before.

“Wha’ you doin’?” Jordan mumbles, face still pressed his hand. His eyes are barely open, just a crack, but he’s frowning at Virgil like he’s trying to figure it out despite his state of sleepiness. “Why you awake?” 

“Couldn’t sleep,” Virgil whispers, swallowing audibly. He pulls the duvet up over his chin, trying to hide the emotion that’s making his chin wobble. He never realised you could miss the person that’s right in front of you. 

“Can hear you thinking from over here,” Jordan says, voice quiet. His frown has shifted into something sympathetic now, and Virgil shrugs pathetically. He doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to say. Jordan won’t want to hear all of his thoughts, his worries and his panics. Not now. Not ever. “Fuck, Virg. Come here.” 

He holds the corner of the duvet up in front of him expectantly, and Virgil couldn’t stop his body moving even if he tried. He slides into Jordan’s bed, settles on his side, and feels all of his muscles relax when Jordan’s arm slips over his waist. Lips on the back of his neck, nose against the short hairs there. Skin on skin, _intimacy_ , finally, after so long without.

He feels his eyelids drift shut, and eventually falls asleep counting the seconds between Jordan’s breaths. 

.

They finally win back at Anfield. It doesn't feel like home, though - not in the way it used to.

It's weird not looking ahead, glancing to his right and seeing Jordan. It's weird, seeing him behind the bench, all tucked up in his coat and beanie. A spectator, and nothing more than that. It's like he's meaningless, except for the fact that they miss him more than anything. It's messing with the team, and Virgil misses what it was before.

Jordan approaches him after the game, because it would be weirder if he didn't. They still haven't told anybody, wanted to see how today went. Piling misery on top of misery wasn't their intention.

But Jordan approaches him and holds out his hands like normal. Virgil slaps them, that familiar double high five, but it doesn't feel right. Jordan is wearing gloves, and shrugs, muttering something about the cold when Virgil gives him a quizzical look.

It feels like more than that. It feels like a barrier.

Virgil turns away because the thought hurts, but he doesn't get very far. Jordan's arm slides along the length of his shoulders and he's reaching up on his tiptoes, pulling him in for a warm hug. Something in Virgil's head is telling him it's just for the routine, for the cameras and their teammates, but it isn't the same. It's more. 

If it didn't hurt so much, he'd remind himself that Jordan is still in love with him.

But it does, so he smiles weakly and turns away, to Joe. A distraction. Something that isn't the gorgeous lines of Jordan's face.

He misses him so much it hurts.

.

"Tomorrow," Jordan says, blinking heavily and hanging his head. He looks distraught, but Virgil doesn't even know where to start with comforting him.

"Tomorrow," he confirms, although the words tear up his throat. He swears that the tangy taste of blood in his real, but he knows that it's all in his head. 

That's just how much it hurts.

.

"We, um," Jordan says. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and Virgil can't take his eyes off him. He's tearing up, just a little, and he's quite possibly the most beautiful thing that Virgil has ever seen. "We need to talk to you all."

The boys are all around them, looking expectant. Confused, too - but mostly expectant. Virgil hates that it has to be this big announcement, but he also knows that it affects more than just them two. He hates it, but he understands.

That doesn't mean he's going to be the one to say it, though.

"It's - really fucking shit that I have to say this," Jordan says, risking a glance at Virgil. He presses the pad of his thumb into the corner of his eye to stop himself from crying. "But I thought you all should know that Virgil and I have decided to split up."

A ripple of shock travels through the group, and Virgil cringes.

"Consciously uncoupled," he adds. He's trying to make this whole thing a little lighter but his voice wobbles when he speaks, and Jordan reaches out to touch his elbow gently. Nobody laughs. Nobody even smiles.

"Nothing's going to change, alright?" Jordan says, addressing their teammates again. He has angled his body so that he can't see Virgil's face, the heartbreak in his eyes, the down turned corners of his lips. Like he's trying to ignore the problem. "Well, things might start to improve on the pitch now we aren't distracting each other. But we're still friends, there's no hard feelings."

Their friends nod, although they look confused.

"So, if there's nothing else…" Jordan says, looking at each of them expectantly. Nobody says anything, almost like they don't dare to move a muscle, and Jordan nods decisively. Like that's it. Like it's officially over, and there's no going back. Virgil didn't think it'd hurt this much. "Back to work then, come on."

The crowd disperses, but Virgil is rooted to the spot. Even Jordan takes three steps, but he realises that Virgil isn't following him and turns, a concerned look on his face. "You okay?" He asks, and the dam in Virgil's chest bursts.

"How are you so-- _calm_?" He asks, wiping harshly at his eyes before the tears start to come. He feels like he can't move from this spot because his broken heart will fall right out of his body. The scene of the crime, and all that will be left is a chalk line of his remains. "Don't you feel it? Don't you feel _broken_?"

"Yes. Of course I do," Jordan says, taking those three steps back towards Virgil. He stands in his personal space and cups his cheek, and Virgil hangs his head, leaning into the touch. "But we promised that we wouldn't bring it into work, didn't we? I know that meant us, but it's the - it's the break up, too."

He struggles to get the words out, and Virgil's heart shatters a little bit more.

"I miss you," Virgil says, words coming out before he can stop them. It's ridiculous because they're together all the time, but Jordan knows what he means and he nods, pulling the younger man into a tight hug.

"I miss you too," he says, lips against the shell of Virgil's ear, and then he's gone. The only thing that's left of him is the phantom warmth against Virgil's skin.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ [georginiwijnaldum](https://georginiwijnaldum.tumblr.com/)


End file.
